


Sarcio

by MyPrivateInsanity



Category: Dramione - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-14 08:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11779440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPrivateInsanity/pseuds/MyPrivateInsanity
Summary: Even the brightest witch of her age isn't infallible. Hermione is struggling to recover after the war, and will need help. And just who is this chemist with the ideal treatment? Someone who could use a little recovery himself, it appears..NOW COMPLETE!





	1. Chapter 1

She was the best. The brightest. The strongest.

Until she wasn’t.

Warriors of every age were familiar with it, though the names and descriptors varied. Shell shock. Combat Fatigue. PTSD. 

They’d called her a war hero, never understanding that in some ways she was as much a casualty as those who lay dead in Hogwarts on that fateful day.

It had begun so quietly that it was unremarkable. An odd or disturbing dream. Her hands shaking, ink dripping from the quill as she tried to write. She was tired. Food wasn’t as appealing. The wine decanter was emptying a little faster.

Then one day - the dreams came while she was awake.

She was working at her desk at the Ministry of Magic - Auror work wasn’t the glamorous occupation many thought it, there were so many reports, so many layers of bureaucracy to wade through. She spent much of her time with paperwork. No level of Quick Quotes Quill would help alleviate that necessity. It had been hours with quill and parchment, documenting the progress she and Harry had made in pursuing the remnants of the Dark Lord’s army. Not everyone was glad to see him gone, despite what they said publicly. There were plenty of holdouts to deal with.

Someone in the hall dropped a book on the floor.

She looked up, startled - into the eyes of Neville Longbottom. A young Neville Longbottom, much younger than he currently was. With the great doors of Hogwarts behind him. The roaring in her ears resolved itself into a chorus of screams, the white noise of spells being cast, shouting voices, thuds and thumps and jarring crashes, decibel upon decibel of terror. 

Shaking, panicked, she asked, “Neville? Neville! What is this?”

He continued to look at her - no, through her, at she knew not what, a horrified expression on his face.

She blinked, and he was gone. 

Her office door opened to admit Harry. “All right, Hermione?” he asked.

Dazed and trembling, she managed to choke out, “All right…”

Harry paused. “You sure? You look pale.”

“Yes, I - I must’ve fallen asleep for a moment.”

* * *

He’d never admit to the loneliness, even to himself.

Not that there was much of anyone else to admit it to.

It had seemed the only way - to disappear into plain sight. Plain. Ordinary. Nondescript brown hair, pale blue eyes the only less-than-ordinary feature.

Initially there had been an enormous amount to learn - what an eye opener that had been. Things he’d barely heard of became second nature to him, necessary pieces of the anonymity he’d craved. That which he had scorned became his refuge and salvation.

Sometimes it seemed as if it was all a dream - a nightmare, more like. Except he’d lived it and bore the scars from it. Was making reparations for it. Quietly. Anonymously. In his own, extraordinarily ordinary way.

Leaving his flat, he went down the lift to the underground car park and climbed into the late model black Mercedes waiting there. He drove for a bit, finally entering another underground car park, this one under a nondescript building housing offices and a lab. He parked the Mercedes and went up the lift to his office. 

“Good morning, Mr. Malloy,” said the woman behind the desk. 

“Hullo, Marjorie,” he replied. “Anything new?” 

“Just the post. And that hospital in New York rang - they’re interested in going ahead with the infusion trial. They want to work with you for FDA approval. They asked you call as soon as convenient.”

Serums. Infusions. Vaccinations. All potions of one sort or another. It was all in knowing the ingredients, how they’d interact, what they’d counter, the side effects and how to mitigate them. Whether it came in a phial or an IV bag, the principles were the same.

He’d made a bit of a name for himself as a chemist - enough to live comfortably, to contribute to progress in this new world he inhabited, but not enough to generate attention from anyone other than specialty media. It was a fine line he walked - he certainly had theories that he’d love to put to the test, but it wouldn’t do to draw too much attention to himself. Hiding in plain sight was a constant tightrope walk, even in this initially alien landscape he’d chosen for his sanctuary.

He walked into his office, powering up the high-watt stereo system that played the music he surrounded himself with these days. Pouring himself a cup of coffee with plenty of cream and sugar, he walked up the stairs into his office, shut the door, and picked up the phone to call New York.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione sat on the sofa in her flat, nursing a glass of wine. It was becoming easier and easier to rationalize away the fright she’d had earlier that day. She was tired, and she had been working a lot. She was only human and was bound to get worn down occasionally. Certainly a good night's rest would help tremendously.

She downed the rest of the wine, and then made her way to the bedroom. Stripping out of her work clothes, she donned an old tank top and sleep shorts, then made her way to the washroom, where she brushed her teeth and washed her face.

She returned to the bedroom, where she stared at the bed. She contemplated using one of the sleeping draughts that the healer at Saint Mungo's had given her. She hated using the draughts to sleep, but, really, didn't they exist for a reason?

Abruptly, she grabbed the sleeping draught, cracked it open, and downed it in one swift gulp. Laying down on the bed, she wrapped herself in the quilt and shut her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

Her sleep was uneasy; she tossed and turned, jerking fitfully.

Her dream was worse. 

She was in the Department of Mysteries along with her friends - Harry, Ron, Neville, Luna - and they were searching for the prophecy. Then the Death Eaters came. They fought, underpowered and outmatched. She knew what was going to happen, but it was still difficult - she managed to Silence Dolohov but not stop his specialized curse. 

But the curse - the curse - was not what she expected. When the battle had actually happened, she’d been knocked unconscious. She was awake for this. 

Pain, agonizing pain; nausea, erratic heartbeat, no control over her breathing…her entire body was going haywire. Her vision was overridden and she was seeing things - things that Dolohov must have done. Torturing people. Killing people. Mass murder of Muggles. And she felt his glee, his exhilaration, laid over her own shocked fear. It was horrific. Worse than any torture she’d ever undergone, both physical and psychological. How long could she endure?

Waking abruptly, she sat up.

"Oh - oh dear Merlin, what an awful nightmare!" She gasped in relief to realize it was nothing but a dream.

And then watched the ice forming slowly on her bedroom door. What the hell?

She grabbed her wand off the nightstand as the door flew open to reveal a dementor in her apartment. 

Leaping from the bed, she cast the spell - "Expecto Patronum!" 

To no effect. 

"Oh dear Lord, this can't be REAL! Expecto Patronum!" Nothing. She tried again and again, with no success, despite her long history of effortlessly using the charm.

The creature was blocking the only exit from the room, so there was nowhere to run, even if she could have outrun it. The hardwood floor was iced over and slick, the carpet crackling with ice. The windows were frozen shut. 

Suddenly she knew she was going to die, in one of the most miserable ways possible. 

The dementor hovered over her, and she felt her soul struggling to stay connected to her body. The pain as it was ripped out of her was excruciating, worse than anything she could have imagined. As her vision narrowed, dialed smaller and smaller like looking out the wrong side of a telescope, then grew to a pinpoint of light, her sorrow and pain were beyond any bounds, as if nothing would ever be good again. 

And then it was gone, and she was lying, shaking, on the bed, staring at the ceiling with her wand in her hand. 

Gasping for breath, she sat slowly and looked around the room. Her same old bedroom, looking just as it always had. 

Trembling, she got up and walked into the lounge. She poured a glass of wine, looked at it, and downed it in two quick gulps. It didn't seem to help much. Then she went to the cupboard and grabbed the bottle of firewhisky she kept for when Harry visited, opened it and had a good swig. It burned on the way down - so she knew she was still alive. Alive was good. The burning was good. Another shot reassured her again. 

She sat down on the sofa, shaking and occasionally rocking back and forth, clutching her firewhisky lifeline, periodically reassuring herself with another shot and then another, and stared into the fireplace until the sun rose.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, she dragged herself through the shower and to work. She knew she looked like the morning after the night before, but at least she was there, wasn't she? She stumbled through the day, sitting quietly through meetings, stammering something when she was called upon to speak. 

On the way home, she bought another bottle of firewhisky. Just in case.

After the second night of horrendous nightmares, she wondered if it were the sleeping draughts from the healer at St. Mungo's that were causing the problem. 

On the third night, she refrained from taking the sleeping draught. Were the dreams better, or worse? It was hard to tell. But the firewhisky made a difference. That marvelous burn, painful and reassuring all at once. Life affirming. She'd have to pick more up soon; she was almost out again. The combination of that following her favorite red wine was enough to calm her, or nearly enough. It was certainly more effective than anything the healer had given her. At least it made her numb.

Weeks or maybe months later, she was exhausted and drained. She wasn't sure what was wrong or even if something really was wrong. There were times she felt like herself, and times when she felt confused and angry, unsure of what was going on or occasionally even where she was. Which world was the reality and which the imaginary?

It was clear to those who care about her that something was going on. Harry and Ginny invited her over to Grimmauld Place to dinner, to talk with her. 

That evening, she wanted to stay home. She was edgy and felt like her skin was crawling, like everything was trying to irritate her. The firewhisky was helpful in addressing that, too; she had a couple of shots as she was getting ready to go, to calm her nerves. She didn't want her friends to worry about her; they had enough to deal with without having to babysit her. She checked her appearance in the mirror before floo'ing over to their place, not noticing the dark circles under her eyes or how her clothes hung on her. 

At first, she seemed fine to Harry and Ginny, accepting a glass of wine and sitting on the sofa, chatting about inconsequential things. Then Ginny got up to go work on final preparations for dinner and Hermione offered to assist. Harry followed, so as not to be left alone and since everyone always seemed to gravitate toward the kitchen anyway. 

Hermione looked around the room, remembering the past and the Order meetings that took place here. Something shifted in her brain. 

"Any word on Mundungus?"

Harry turned to her, stunned. "What did you say?"

"I was just wondering whether anyone knew whether Kreacher had any news on Mundungus' whereabouts. We need to get that locket!"

"Hermione, that was a long time ago; it's all over with now," said Ginny, confused. 

"What are you talking about? We were just discussing this the other day - we know it must be a horcrux!"

As Harry and Ginny tried to calm her, she became increasingly agitated as her grasp on the here and now slipped further away. After some minutes of this, they realized they couldn’t help her, and she was shouting about an imminent attack. Exchanging a glance with Ginny, Harry wrapped his arm around Hermione's waist and apparated her to St. Mungo's.

As they arrived at the emergency room at Mungo's, Hermione was screaming and fighting him. He'd grabbed her wand and tossed it out of her reach at the house, where Ginny retrieved it for safekeeping, but she was struggling to get her wand, his, any wand and fight the demons only she could see.

Healers rushed to their side and immediately saw the challenge, using subduing spells on her and then sedating her. She was transferred to a ward bed in the psychiatric ward. Given that she is a celebrity, she was admitted under an assumed name. 

Healer Fortescue was assigned to her case. He was eager to make a name for himself - and what better way than to cure one of the great warriors? He doctored her with potions and charms and spells, but regardless of what he did, when she regained consciousness she was unable to stay oriented to time and place. One moment she seemed to be fine, to understand what was happening to her - the next she was asking questions about events of the past as if they were currently happening, then imagining herself or her friends as under attack and trying to respond.

Harry knew there had to be something that would help - something more than what Fortescue seemed able to come up with. So he started researching. After days in the library at the Ministry of Magic, he turned to the Westminster Library and began reading in Muggle books and periodicals. In a medical journal, he read of an FDA trial of an infusion to help PTSD patients resistant to other treatments, the early results seemingly very promising. The lead scientist was a man named Jacob Malloy. Interestingly enough, Malloy was based in London.

Harry determined to go see this Malloy and ask him for his help. Somehow he'd finesse the magic part. He could always Obliviate him if he had to.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Harry tracked down Malloy's offices in London. He walked in and was greeted by the indomitable Marjorie. She wasn't inclined to let him through, but Harry was quietly and stubbornly persistent, and there was just something about the look in his eyes...so she rang her boss.

"Sir, there's a man here to see you and he's rather insistent about it. He claims it's a matter of life and death. Did you wish to speak with him?"

"What is his name?"

"Harry Potter."

Malloy was stunned to hear the name - could it be? But how could it? It was a common enough name after all. 

"Send him in."

Harry walked in, fascinated by his surroundings. He was in a large room full of equipment, with grunge rock playing rather loudly, though it was soon turned down. As he looked toward the room's occupant, the man seemed familiar...and then the penny dropped.

"Draco Malfoy?!"

"Hullo Potter. How are you?"

"I'm - I'm fine. And you're-Jacob Malloy? What?"

Draco sighed. "It's a bit of a long story. But, yes, that's the name I'm known by in the Muggle world."

"But why?"

Draco smiled wryly. "Well, I had to do something with my life, and being the most hated wizard alive in Britain didn't seem to be the best choice. So I left, since I couldn't seem to convince people to think otherwise. I took my interest in potions to the Muggle world, where I discovered chemistry - and here I am."

"But - you hated everything about Muggles! They were vermin to you!"

"Or it could be I just repeated what I was told often enough that I thought I believed it until I had a chance to see for myself. It didn't take me long to see how very wrong I was, and to know it'd take some serious effort on my part to get ahead. So I set to work and created what you see."

Harry looked around the room more closely. He could see a fascinating combination of Muggle technology - computers, centrifuges, extractors - which were augmented with magic - vats of liquids stirring themselves, the occasional pot reaching to turn a burner down or up. Glass-fronted cabinets along the walls held an astonishing array of ingredients - some locked to keep the friskier ingredients from escaping. "How does all this work then?" 

"It's simple but kind of ingenious, if I may say so. I blended together what I knew of potions from the magical world with Muggle advancements in pharmaceuticals, and made new classes of potions - or call them drugs if you wish - that use magic and Muggle chemistry in tandem to get results better and faster than either magic or chemistry alone can obtain."

Harry couldn't refrain from remarking cautiously, "You look - different."

Draco laughed."Yes, I couldn't risk someone who couldn't let go of the past finding me too easily. The Malfoy look is pretty unique, so I chose to tone it down a bit. It's just Muggle hair dye and contacts, so it's pretty easy to do but I don't have to keep a glamour up all the time. I'll admit sometimes the contacts are uncomfortable, so I don't always wear them - I just blame the changing eye colour on whatever I'm wearing.

But I doubt you're here just to catch up. Marjorie said something about a serious issue?"

Harry was suddenly uncertain whether this would go the way he'd hoped. He didn't know how Malfoy would react to being asked to help someone he'd always despised. But everything he'd read seemed positive, and the meeting so far was going well - better than he would have hoped for had he known who he was approaching. 

He described what had been happening with Hermione - the haggardness, the lack of focus, the hallucination at Grimmauld Place, taking her to Mungo's, and the lack of progress since.

Draco listened quietly until the end, then looked down at the desk and muttered, "Jesus Christ." This would be a true test of his theories and capabilities. His mind was racing - that infusion under trial in the States had been designed specifically for Muggle use, but could it be modified to help a witch?

The bigger question was - did he want to return to a world where he was universally rejected and ostracized for his prior actions, despite his having been little more than a boy when it all came down? But he would never forget the horror of watching Hermione being tortured by his aunt in his own home, and the atrocities she and her friends endured because of his family and their mistaken allegiance. How could he not try to help her?

"I've got some ideas," he told Harry as he grabbed a case and began tossing things into it from the various tables and cupboards. "Let me grab a few things, and then can we go see her? I'll need to stop by my flat and change - come along with me?"

"Erm, sure," said Harry as he followed the taller man out the lab door and into the stairwell . "By the way, I never thought I'd hear that out of your mouth."

Draco stopped on the stairs and turned to him, frowning. "What? That I'll help an ill person?"

"No. 'Jesus Christ.'"

Draco grinned. "Muggle swearing for Muggle living, Potter!" he said as he turned, finishing the flight of stairs and heading toward his Mercedes.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry and Draco left Draco's flat by apparating into Diagon Alley. Draco had changed more than his clothes. Gone were any signs of Jacob Malloy, and in his place was a Malfoy through and through - white blond hair, pale skin, grey eyes, tone-on-tone black suit, black shirt with a satin black tie. It soon became more than evident what Draco had been speaking of - the looks thrown their way were scathing, though Harry's presence seemed to stave off the worst of it. 

They arrived at St. Mungo's Hospital, and Harry led the way to Hermione's room. Fortescue was there again, looking at her and the chart, and mumbling to himself. 

Harry introduced Draco to Fortescue, mentioning Draco's success at innovative treatments and the fact that Harry was hoping Draco could help.

"Right, then - let's have a look at the chart," Draco said briskly. 

Healer Fortescue stammered, " But - but - you're not authorized...you're not on staff here! I can't just -"

Draco quickly reached the end of his patience and snatched the chart from Fortescue's hands, turning his back and walking across the room to read it as Harry blocked Fortescue's way from crossing the room to Malfoy. 

After reading for a few moments, a muscle in his jaw began to flex. Suddenly Draco appeared as imperious as ever Lucius could have been - and somehow even more terrifying. Turning back abruptly, he snapped, "So tell me, Fortescue - are you actively trying to poison her, or just manifestly incompetent?!" 

Fortescue stared, dumbstruck, as Draco, his anger palpable, continued: "Get out of my sight, you worthless shite! Don't make this worse. Go. NOW!"

Fortescue scuttled out of the room, reminding Harry of nothing so much as a cockroach.

Hermione's chart in hand, Draco walked up to the office of the Director of St. Mungo's, where he was summarily waved in - whether due to his surname or his intimidating demeanor was uncertain.

Draco explained to the Director the infusion he'd been working on for the Americans, and how he expected it to work. Preliminary results had been very positive thus far, although the study was still underway. Having obtained the Director's approval to proceed, he reviewed what measures they'd already taken, deciding he would have to detox her before he tried anything else. 

The next morning, Draco began supervising the detox process - monitoring her condition as they worked to wean her from Fortescue's poisonous cocktail of potions while managing side effects. Thank Merlin that she was young and fairly strong. 

Despite the precautions he and the team of Healers took, as she began to regain consciousness he watched her vital stats slipping, and she wasn't responding to stabilizing measures. She was clearly distraught, thrashing in the bed, her head tossing back and forth, moaning. 

Draco huddled with the Healers for a few minutes. They were in agreement that prolonging her magically-induced coma was not in her best interests, if they could get her through this somehow.

Thinking quickly, Draco offered, "I can try going into her mind. That way we could at least see what she's reacting to, and perhaps we can find a way to suggest a different result." 

Taking hold of his wand, he whispered, "Legilimens," and suddenly found himself standing in - his parents' home? Looking to his left, he saw his younger self, staring across the room helplessly. His Aunt Bella was on the floor, with Hermione pinned under her, and... oh gods, she was cutting into her arm! He blinked, and then he was seeing things through Hermione's eyes, staring into his aunt's face, feeling her terror, her pain...it was nearly overwhelming. 

Fear, anger, hatred…and determination. He’d known she was stubborn, but he’d not realized how much so - she was not going to give over whatever anyone wanted of her in this situation, even if she died resisting. With the torture she was undergoing, which he’d witnessed done to others, he knew many people would have broken and started offering up whatever they could to try to bargain their way out of the situation.

There was more to this woman than he’d realized. 

What could he do for her nightmare, stuck in the past? He began whispering to her, "Hang on, it'll be okay, Harry and Ron are coming for you..." He felt her calm slightly, and the vision faded as she transitioned into a dreamless sleep. 

He already knew he'd never forget that night - and now he'd never forget her pain - or her strength - either.

A couple of hours later, he realized just how long of a process the detox was going to be as he and the others in the room watched her slide into another nightmare. Once again, he found himself inside her dream.

This place was unfamiliar to him: somewhere in the woods, a tent was pitched. He watched as Ron Weasley walked out of the tent, Granger right behind him. He realized this must have happened during their year-long search for horcruxes. He watched her interactions with Potter and Weasley, a bit fascinated at the concept of their friendship without anything sexual involved. He’d sniggered along with everyone else at school at the dirty jokes made behind their backs - but he realized now there was nothing like that about their relationship. She had fancied herself in love with Weasley but, looking at it from an adult perspective, it seemed like a schoolgirl crush that wasn’t destined to last. Weasley represented the acceptance she’d longed for in the wizarding community - which was surely comforting, but not enough to sustain a true relationship when they had so little in common intellectually. He wondered where they stood now.

This pattern continued throughout the night; every few hours she became distraught, thrashing and moaning in her sleep, and Malfoy dipped into her mind to try to help her through. It became exhausting, but he didn’t feel right about allowing another legilimens into her mind - it somehow felt too personal, too much a violation.

He whispered words of encouragement to her as he watched scenes flicker by - the despair she and Potter had felt as Weasley left; the encounter with the Snatchers; the break-in at Gringott’s and flying the dragon out - and he gained a deeper respect for her skills and intelligence, and how she’d used them during the war. It was clear that Potter wouldn’t have succeeded if it wasn’t for her - she was the mastermind behind so much that they accomplished. 

As dawn neared, she finally seemed to have settled into a deep, regular sleep, vital signs stabilized and no indication of drug-induced nightmares. Malfoy allowed himself to relax a bit, and once he was convinced the crisis was over he took himself home to rest and then tackle the next task - helping her back to herself.

As he headed home, he mulled over all he had learned about her in the last several hours. Potter had been damned lucky to have her at his side. She’d be an asset as a partner to any man. 

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on what, precisely, he meant by that.

\------------------------------------------------------

After spending time in his lab, Draco found modifiers for the infusion, altering it to work with the magic-permeated body of a witch. The next day, Healers throughout the room, monitoring her closely, Draco carefully administered the potion.

Everyone in the room was relieved when Hermione's eyes slowly fluttered open. Harry was standing by the bed, overjoyed. 

"Harry? Where am I?"

"You're in hospital, Hermione - you've been...rather ill. But you're getting better now." 

Hermione looked over the room, her eyes gradually focusing on each person. She gasped when she saw Draco - dressed just as he'd been that awful night in Malfoy Manor. Alarmed, she gasped, "Draco Malfoy?!"

"It's okay, he's been helping you," Harry hastened to reassure her. "You remember his ability with potions? He's brewed a potion that helped restore you to yourself."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria, Draco finally asked the question that had been hovering in the back of his mind for days. "Potter? Where's Weasley in all this?"

"He's living in Australia now, playing quidditch in the minors."

"Surely they'd let him come home to see her under the circumstances."

"What? Oh! They're not...an item any more. That didn't last very long, in fact, and was over a long time ago. To be honest, they weren't very compatible; he wanted a houseful of kids and she wanted a career. They decided they were better off as friends." 

"Hmm." He didn't want to admit the relief he felt at hearing that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Smutty smut contained herein! If that's not your cuppa, read through "And yet- and yet - " and imagine a fade to black with a puzzled Draco at the end and you'll be up to speed!
> 
> (As a side note, this is the first smut I've ever written - hope it's not too awful...)

She had made a lot of progress rather quickly, so it seemed almost silly that she was frightened to sleep. But some of the first episodes had surrounded her attempts to sleep, so perhaps it was understandable. Every night, she'd find herself fighting to stay awake, despite being fatigued, afraid of what her dreams would bring; afraid of slipping back, losing progress, falling back into the nightmare when she was awake.

She thought of the sleeping draughts she'd gotten in the past - but her fears encompassed their use as she remembered how they seemed to do nothing but bring on the nightmares. 

She finally said something to Draco about it during one of her follow up visits, and he of course set about concocting something just for her. Not wanting to leave her alone with an untested potion, he planned to sleep at her place on the sofa-which was nearly long enough for him.

She was lovely in her simple pajamas with her hair down, rioting about her shoulders. He reminded himself he was here on a medical basis and for no other reason. Though not strictly a medical professional, he’d tried to keep his distance from her despite his growing fascination for her - he didn't want to take advantage. Dressed in casual trousers and a t shirt, he kicked off his shoes and wrapped himself in a blanket, settling down to sleep.

He was awakened by an odd noise. Not quite a wail, or a moan - but a sound that set his teeth on edge. It was a sound of pain, of despair.

He got up and went to her bedroom. Knocked softly on the door. There was no answer. 

And then she screamed. He was through the door in a flash, wand in hand, scanning the room for intruders before he realized the only intruders were in her mind. 

She was awake by then, sobbing. He gathered her up in his arms, shushing her, consoling her as if she were a child. She clung to him, shaking like a leaf. For several minutes, he held her, rocking her, soothing her.

Then something shifted.

He was warm and solid, strong muscles under her hands as she ran her palms up his arms and linked her hands behind his neck, pulling him to her. He didn't fight her but it was clear that he was reluctant. No longer a boy, he understood how one could regret rash choices made in the heat of the moment. He didn't want to be the cause of her dismay in the morning. 

And yet - and yet -

She tasted like honey, and her hair felt like spun silk in his hands. Caught, he dipped his tongue deeper into her mouth, greedy for her taste. She whimpered softly, pulling him closer and running her hands over his back, and he knew he was lost. Over and over his tongue ravaged her mouth. His lips stroked across her cheek, his mouth finding the cords in her neck, teeth nipping at them before soothing her with his tongue. She grabbed fistfuls of his t shirt, pulling at it; he answered her demand and pulled back enough to yank it off over his head and toss it to the floor. 

She stroked the planes of his chest, looking at him steadily, watching his eyes turn to charcoal. He reached for the buttons on her top and began to undo them, waiting to see if she stopped him. She did not. He spread open her top, gazing down at her before cupping her breast in his hand and gently stroking her nipple with his thumb. She whimpered softly, and he whispered, "you're so beautiful," as he leaned down to take her mouth again with his. The heat between them accelerated as his fingers began to toy with her nipple in earnest, and then his mouth trailed down to her other breast, nipping and suckling her. She was moaning, relishing the feel of his feathery hair between her fingers as she held his head to her body.

Shifting his weight, he was kissing her again, pressing her back on the bed and stroking down her chest to her stomach, petting her as his fingertips dipped under the waistband of her pajama bottoms. He hesitated a moment and she sighed "please," into his mouth, parting her legs for him. His breath grew ragged as he reached her core, stroking her and dipping a finger to find and circle her clit. Her quiet broken cries were making him crazy. Suddenly sitting up, he grabbed her waistband and began to tug her bottoms down as she lay back, raised her hips and reached to help him. She pulled her top off and was lying naked beside him. He reached between her legs and stroked her again, then slipped a finger, then a second, into her, fucking her slowly with them as the heel of his hand rubbed against her, watching her face.

She was nearly mindless in her pleasure, reaching to undo his trousers so she could access his cock. Finding him, she was stroking him, running her thumb over the thick head as his beautiful eyes fluttered shut and he groaned. She tried to pull him to her, but he shook his head - not yet - and, pulling away, knelt between her knees, spreading her legs wide, before he leaned down to taste her succulent pussy. 

His tongue cupped and stroked her clit as his clever fingers resumed their teasing of her, stroking her slowly at first, then faster as her cries grew louder. Her hips were moving, rising to meet his strokes, and he lifted his head to see her lovely body writhing at his touch, a pale pink flush slowly growing deeper across her face and chest. He leaned down and began to suck on her clit, gently and then harder, and that sent her into orgasm, screaming her pleasure as her pussy clenched around his hand. He kept on sucking and stroking her, riding out her orgasm, prolonging it until she was convulsing. She had barely come down from her orgasm before he had wrenched his trousers off and mounted her, thrusting into her with hard, sure strokes that felt like heaven. Her arms and legs wrapped around him and she clung, riding with him, her nails digging into his skin. She was crying out with every stroke and he knew he wouldn't last long; cupping her ass in his hands, he tilted her pelvis a bit so he ground against her clit with each stroke. She began to shake; he nipped at her earlobe and whispered "come with me" as he felt his control slipping-and she came hard, triggering the orgasm that ripped through him as he poured into her, shouting hoarsely, his chest heaving and sheened with sweat. Overcome, he collapsed onto her, cradling her head in his arms and pressing his face into her neck. 

Finally realizing he was likely crushing her, he pulled out and lay next to her. As he reached to pull her into his arms, she rolled over away from him, whispered "thank you" and fell asleep-leaving him to stare at the ceiling and wonder what had just happened between them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, more smut here...

The next morning, Draco was up and dressed early. He sat on the sofa, making some notes to himself occasionally, but mostly drinking coffee and staring at nothing. 

Some time later, Hermione exited the bedroom. He quietly got up and poured her a cup of coffee, taking it to her. 

"You're up."

"I'm vertical, if that's what you mean." She was determined to go to work, despite the bad dreams the night before - she had stacks and stacks of paperwork to catch up on and it wouldn't get done by itself. She sucked down the coffee, then staggered her way through the shower and dressed, heading for the door.

He stopped her - there was a mark on her neck. A love bite that he'd given her, that she hadn't covered. "You might want to..." He gestured to the spot on her neck, and she glanced in the mirror over the fireplace. Blushing, she stammered, "Oh, erm..." 

"Here, let me," he murmured, and glamoured it away simply by stroking his fingers gently across it. "Sorry about that."

"Thanks," she said quietly, wondering just what it was he was sorry for - and a bit amazed that his magic was so advanced he could glamour the bruise away merely by touching her. 

He left, going to the lab to work on modifications to the sleeping potion for her. And he thought. Had it been a mistake to give in to her? 

The next night, he was on her sofa again, asleep and dreaming. His dream was suddenly erotic; a beautiful witch with beguiling eyes was kneeling over him, pulling his member out, taking him into her mouth...

He awakened to find Hermione straddling him, naked, on the sofa, giving him the best blowjob he'd ever had. "Ah, shit, sweetheart, what...?" 

"Shh, let me..." she crooned, taking him back into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the head.

He had quickly gone beyond anything more than a stammered word or two - and then she edged forward and slid him deep into her pussy, rocking back and forth and grinding against him. Gasping, he sat up and pulled her down to him, cupping her ass in his hands and working her over his cock as his mouth found her breast and nipped at her. She was balanced with her hands on either side of his head, until he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her against him, kissing her frantically, grabbing her hips and jamming himself into her until she came, screaming into his mouth, with him right behind. 

He finally calmed down enough to nuzzle her ear and ask her softly, "are you all right?"

"I had a dream...I was pinned down. Bellatrix was there, with that knife...again. I keep seeing it in my head, and wishing you'd done something to stop it. But I know you couldn't have, even if you wanted to..."

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so, so sorry. I remember I was so terrified, and I felt so helpless. I wish I could have made it different. I know we didn't really like each other then, but I never - I wouldn't -"

She stroked his cheek. "I know."

After a few quiet minutes, Draco said, "Hey come on, let's go to bed. If we fall asleep on the sofa here I won't be able to turn my head for a week."

Moving into the bedroom, they climbed into her bed together. Hermione immediately snuggled close to him as he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead.

The next day, he made a few more adjustments to the formula. That night, there was no more pretense of him sleeping on the sofa.


	8. Chapter 8

During the bad nights, his touch had been the only thing that helped, that soothed her, caused her to stop thinking and just - be. He somehow knew instinctively what she wanted from him physically, and always gave it to her. He'd altered the potion so that she could sleep the night through, and she felt more and more like herself as the days wore on - but she didn't want to let go of this intimacy with him. 

And yet, she tried to convince herself that she disliked him. It was easy to remember all the obnoxious and sometimes downright horrible things he'd said and done in school. A leopard didn't change its spots, did it? Just because he was talented as a potions master didn't make him a good person. And, well, talented in bed, but since he'd shagged anything that would hold still long enough in the past, she guessed that was to be expected too. 

She tried to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that listed all the ways he'd changed: he wasn't outgoing any more, but he was unfailingly cordial until given a reason not to be, though his temper, once roused, was formidable. (She'd heard about how he threw out the Healer at Mungo's.) Even then, his anger wasn't directed at people so much as it was a reaction to incompetence or unfairness. He was clearly brilliant, having made marvelous discoveries that could positively impact hundreds of people's lives. He was perceptive and considerate, and his knowledge of both magical and Muggle culture made him a fascinating conversationalist. 

He was quietly attentive to her, when she would allow him to be. 

People inevitably drew away from him and slighted him - which is why he'd ceased to be outgoing. His every feature bore the Malfoy stamp and the folklore surrounding the name was even more negative than the reality had been - and that had been bad enough. Those on the side of Light saw nothing but a Death Eater who somehow walked away unscathed; those who’d been with the Dark Lord saw a failure and even a traitor to their beliefs. He'd seemingly never finish paying for the past. 

As the days wound into weeks, he found himself struggling. Hoping for some sign, a softening, a kind word from her. The irony of the situation was not lost on him – in his younger days, how many women had been in this same position with him that he was now with her? Lost and desperate for crumbs of affection. 

It had taken him some while to realize that he loved her. Love was an emotion that was not well known to him. While he was fairly certain his mother loved him, he was equally certain that his father had not – in fact, probably had not known how to love him, his only son. He applied the same analysis to his own feelings that he applied to the analysis of his work. What were the ingredients, the actions, the interactions? The impact of outside stimuli?

The results frightened him, then elated him. She was an amazing woman in so many ways - smart, gorgeous, talented. He could see their future together, and he wanted it. Badly. 

But she had to want it too. And it seemed she did not. Every time he brought up anything to do with the future, she changed the subject, or walked away - anything to shut the discussion down.

Finally, he knew he would have to leave. Leave her, and leave the wizarding world again. It was the last thing he wanted to do, and it was absolutely necessary for his well-being. The few times he'd ventured out in public, the reception was icy at best. He would have found a way to deal with that, if he had her beside him, but any attempt he made to discuss anything more permanent with her was ignored or actively rebuffed. 

It was time for Jacob Malloy to get back to work.

He chose to tell her at her work. In retrospect, it may not have been the best choice, but he knew that if he waited until evening his love and desire for her would overwhelm all of his better judgment.

The discussion didn't go well. 

He met her in her office, with the door shut for privacy's sake. He told her, simply, he was going to be leaving.

"What do you mean you're leaving? When are you coming back?"

He was preternaturally still, his hands in his pockets. "I'm not coming back. I have done what I can for you. It's time for me to get back to my life and my work."

"But – but – I'm not totally recovered!"

"You've made tremendous progress, and haven't had any episodes or negative reactions in weeks. I've made a supply of potions for treatment should you need any more. Your personal Healer is perfectly capable of administering them if need be. You don't need me here for that."

"But I thought - "

His feelings began to get the better of him, and with that the control of his temper began to slip. "Yes, pray tell, just exactly what did you think? Did you think at all? Or was I just a means to scratch an itch?" This with the trademark smirk that she hadn't seen since the war.

"Don't be that way!"

"Don't be what damn way?!" Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shut his eyes and sighed, then waved a hand wide. "Look, I'm tired. I'm tired of trying to get through to you. I've tried everything I can think of. I'm in limbo here with you, and you won't discuss anything with me beyond the next 48 hours. On top of that, the wizarding world is clearly not ready to embrace the Malfoys again. You're well on your way to recovery and don't need me to make any medication adjustments any more. I'm done."

It was as if the floor had shifted under her feet. She was terrified, her fear manifesting as deep, unreasoning anger. Standing and striding to the door, she jerked it open.  
"Fine! Get out! Get out of here and don't come back! I don't know what the hell I was thinking anyway-you're well known for your lack of caring for anyone other than yourself! I have no idea what the hell it is you want from me but I guess that's irrelevant anyway, isn't it?"

"What I - oh fucking hell, Hermione! It's so goddamn obvious! Did you-do you really think it's just part of the treatment package? An assortment of potions and Draco Malfoy's dick?! Did it never occur to you that I'm a human being with feelings? I can't carry on like this. Hell, woman, I love you. I LOVE you, but you don't want to hear it and want nothing from me, other than having me fuck you to sleep every night!"

Shouting by the end, he walked through the door to belatedly realize the hall was seemingly overrun with wizards and witches, all witness to his downfall. Some looked at the walls, the floor - anywhere but in the direction of the doorway. Others were staring open-mouthed. 

And toward the back of the hall stood Harry, his eyes like saucers behind his trademark glasses.

There was nothing for it - tucking his chin down, he snarled "fuck off, the lot of you!" as he strode down the hall, eating up the distance with his long legs, his black cloak streaming behind him.

"Malfoy-" Harry began as the tall wizard came abreast of him, but Draco warned him off with a violent gesture and that icy grey glare. Rounding the corner, he stepped into the nearest open fireplace, threw down a handful of floo powder and growled, "Malfoy Manor!" before vanishing in a flash of green.

Shutting the office door oh so quietly, Hermione walked around behind her desk, sat down, put her face in her hands and began to cry.


	9. Chapter 9

It had been three weeks since that day. Three long, painful weeks. At first, she was angry with Draco, but quickly realized she had no one to blame but herself and her fear. 

It took much of her self-control to get through the days, feigning interest in things that happened around her. It was of course impossible to keep it out of the papers, and she'd been horrified at the headlines all trying to outdo one another - “Slytherin Prince Tarnishes Gryffindor Princess' Crown?" Ridiculous, really, but she was truly dismayed at her private life being the subject of public speculation again. The buzz around her breakup with Ron had been bad enough, but this was worse, with Draco being made out the bad guy taking advantage of her, when in fact it had been exactly the opposite.

The nights without him were nearly unbearable. Her bed was so empty, and she longed for his deep, quiet voice speaking to her in the dark, making her laugh, and the feel of his long, lean body next to hers. The safety and comfort of his presence. It didn't take long for her to know just how badly she'd erred in driving him away. He was all she wanted-all she'd ever really wanted, to be honest. He could keep up with her better than any other man she'd met. He was patient with her moods and her enthusiasms, calmed her when she got so focused she was manic, seemed unperturbed with the challenges her PTSD had presented. As she recovered, he had been a friend and advisor to her, as well as her lover.

It had been three weeks since that day. Three long, painful weeks. His mother was sad to see him leaving again - with Lucius gone, he was all she had left, and it hurt her to see him so defeated. He tried burying himself in his work - God knew enough of it had accumulated during his residence as the Wizard of PTSD. But he sometimes came to, realizing he'd been lost in thoughts of her. The curve of her waist, and how it fit his palm. Her laughter at the stories of his self-directed crash course in being a Muggle. The swift and logical mind that could keep up with him and surpass him in surprising and varied ways.

The taste of her mouth, and of her tears.

She was everything he'd ever wanted, more than he'd hoped for or really deserved-and she inhabited a world he could never return to. 

The phone rang, and he picked it up. "Malloy."

"She's been asking about you."

He didn't pretend not to know who was calling, or who "she" was. Damn, he should go back to having Marjorie screen his calls. Why hadn't he remembered that Potter grew up in a Muggle household and would know how to use a phone?

"Well, that's just -"

"Wait, hear me out, will you? I think she...regrets what happened."

"Regrets it. D'you think that'll make me feel better, that she regrets what we did?"

"No, no, not the...the other. The fight. Letting you leave."

He was silent. Processing.

"Look, Hermione came to talk to me the other day, wanting to know how to reach you. She's even gone to some of your old friends asking questions."

"Jesus, I'm sure that went well."

"Apparently they were perfectly civil, but they either don't know anything, or won't tell her, and Hermione seems like she's getting desperate to find you. Ginny thinks so too. And she's making all the right motions but her heart's not in anything she does. So can I tell her anything?"

"I...no. No."

"She's my best friend, Malfoy, and I owe her more than I can ever repay. I don't know what all happened between the two of you but it seems your presence is necessary for her to be happy, and if that's the case I feel like I'm duty bound to help her. I wish you would at least speak with her."

"I can't. Don't ask this of me. Please, Harry."

Ending the call, Harry found himself startled at the desperate tone of the other man's voice, and could never remember a time Malfoy had used his first name. Potter realized then that Malfoy was hurting at least as much as Hermione was. It was difficult to separate himself from the history he had with the man and recognize that he was different than he'd been. Looking back at the interactions they'd had during Hermione's treatment, he had to acknowledge the brilliant mind, the caring he exhibited, the wry sense of humor that had been the root of the sarcasm he employed like a blade during the bad years at school. He knew some of it had been a cover, but apparently more of it had been an act than any of them had realized. 

He walked down to Hermione's office, and, entering, he shut the door.

"Did you find him, Harry? Oh please, what did he say?"

"I'm sorry, Hermione. He won't agree to meet you or even speak with you."

Oh God, Harry, how am I ever going to fix this? I was so blind! There's got to be a way to get to him!"

"Well, I know he doesn't want to be easily found by the wizarding world. Where would a wizard go to hide in plain sight?"

"You stupid git - how the hell are riddles going to help me?"

"It's the best I can do without breaking my word. You're smart; you'll figure it out," he said, leaving the room.

Distraught, she opened her case and tossed a few things in - enough to make it look like she was going to work from home, at least - and headed out the door. 

As if she could work with this on her mind. At home, she wandered aimlessly from room to room until she found herself in the lounge with the firewhisky bottle in her hand. Suddenly aware of her actions, she walked into the kitchen and, not thinking about the cost, opened the bottle and poured the contents down the drain. She wasn't about to start that again.

Back in the lounge with a cup of tea in lieu of anything stronger, she needed a plan. Maybe the best thing would be to get a good night's sleep and tackle it in the morning. She'd solved so many challenges during her Hogwarts years, and afterward as well - surely finding one rather distinctive-looking wizard couldn't be that hard. 

With that in mind, she picked up one of the last of the sleeping draughts Draco had given her, contemplating whether or not to take it that evening. As she thought, she rolled the bottle back and forth between her fingers, staring at it. She noticed writing engraved on the bottom, in tiny letters.

MALLOY ENT.  
LONDON

Malloy? Shouldn't that be Malfoy? Wait a minute...what, or maybe who, was Malloy Enterprises of London? 


	10. Chapter 10

Next day, she went to the Muggle library and started looking. Malloy Enterprises, based in London, apparently specialized in advanced pharmaceuticals and had recently begun an excitingly promising trial of a treatment for soldiers suffering from PTSD. Malloy Enterprises was a fairly recent addition to the pharmaceutical world, having been founded just a few years prior by genius wunderkind Jacob Malloy.

The PTSD treatment fit, but how did Draco figure in to all of this?

Jacob Malloy. Hmm. If you said the name Draco quickly and mumbled just a bit, it would sound a lot like...Jacob. Jacob Malloy. Draco Malfoy. Could it be?

The following morning, Hermione went to the address she’d found in the library, to find a nondescript building in an industrial area. Walking in, she spoke with the woman at the front desk - Marjorie, according to the name plate on the desk. 

Marjorie was stricter at guarding her employer than any Gringotts goblin was at safeguarding vaults. He doesn't see anyone without an appointment. No, he isn't in. She wasn't at liberty to say when he would return. The lady could leave a message if she wished, but there was no guarantee he would take any action on any message left. She certainly would not discuss her employer’s physical appearance.

Discouraged, Hermione stopped at a nearby coffee shop to regroup. She sat down with her purchase, looked across the shop and - saw him. Or was it him? He was reading that day's London Times as he drank his coffee. His profile was to her, and it looked like him with a few days' growth of beard, but his hair and beard were a honey brown color. 

He must be using a glamour to disguise himself. The shop was quiet, nearly deserted in mid-morning, so she risked a quiet finite incantantum to remove the glamour keeping his hair brown. 

Nothing changed, but she unwittingly drew attention to herself - from him. Feeling the attempted spell hit him, he looked straight at her, shocked, and she wondered if she was mistaken when she saw blue eyes - until she realized, and held her hand out, palm up - "accio Draco's contacts!" He was blinking, furious, his eyes suddenly ice grey.

He got up, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back to his office.

He was blunt to the point of being brutal. "What do you want here?"

His bluntness made her wary. "Draco, I'm sorry. I wish you would come back."

"Why?"

"Well..." she said, stalling; how open dare she be? "We need you. Look what you were able to do for me. Imagine all the others you could help as well."

He sighed, deliberately adopting a calmer tone. "The mere fact of my presence was cause for outrage for a lot of people. I'm glad and so grateful I was able to help you, and I'm sure I can help others - but I can do that from here without having to be Malfoy. There's no reason for me to come back and try to withstand the public hatred when I can help any others from here, where all of my equipment is anyway." He said this, knowing there was one reason for which he would try anything, and that reason is her, but she doesn't want him the way he wants her.

She cannot think of anything to sway him - other than the one thing she is too craven to admit for fear she wouldn't be enough incentive for him to try. 

She went home, discouraged. After analyzing the situation, Hermione decided she had to do something drastic to get his attention and rehabilitate him in the public eye, so he'd feel welcome to come home. If that was possible, then maybe...but she wouldn't think of that now.

After thinking a few minutes, she smiled and went to find parchment and a quill. She began to write: "Dear Madam Malfoy,..."


	11. Chapter 11

Draco was surprised to receive a letter from his mother, and even more surprised at what it contained. "My dear Draco, I have missed seeing my only child. Would you meet me for tea this afternoon at 2? We can meet at that lovely little shop in Diagon Alley."

Narcissa had hardly left the estate since Lucius died, after the war; she felt too uncomfortable in public. Draco was reluctant to return, particularly since he'd so recently declined Hermione's request, but he wouldn't deny his mother this outing. 

Draco entered the Leaky Cauldron from Muggle London just before 2, and was surprised to hear his name uttered in a welcoming tone -"Mr. Malfoy! So good to see you again!" He was taken aback by the bartender's greeting, but answered him cordially enough. 

Going to the back, he tapped the pattern onto the wall and entered Diagon Alley. As he walked toward the tea shop, people pointing and whispering was something he expected, but they were - smiling…were they laughing at him? If enough of the scene at the Ministry a few weeks ago got out - and with so many witnesses it was bound to have done - perhaps he's now a laughingstock in addition to persona non grata in the wizarding world.

He walked in and sat down at the table with his mother promptly at 2.

Unbeknownst to him, the second guest was to arrive at 2:10 or so.

"Draco, how lovely to see you! And thank you for taking the time to meet me."

He smiled at her. "Of course."

"So, tell me about your work. How is it going? Do I recall something about a project in America?"

He frowned a bit, puzzled. "Do you really want to hear about it? It is a project with Muggles, after all."

She smiled encouragingly. "Naturally I do. It's important to you, and most of all I can see how important it is to everyone who needs your talents. The combining of Muggle technology and magical properties seems to - enhance each to perform better as an amalgam than separately, and I think that's fascinating. How did you ever determine what to do?"

He shouldn't have been surprised to realize his mother would understand the processes he went through and appreciate the results. He began updating her on his latest project, the infusion trial in the States. This gave her an opportunity to take stock. He looked tired, thinner if that were possible, and discouraged. It was clear he hadn't been sleeping well, though his clothes and grooming were impeccable as always. 

His voice trailed away as he noticed his mother looking toward the door.

"I've invited someone else to join us - oh, Miss Granger!" she called out, waving a hand as elegantly as any queen.

Draco’s eyes flared - and then he carefully schooled his expression to that frozen mask he’d perfected as a shield during the bad years.

Narcissa Black Malfoy hadn't spent her entire adult life dealing with Malfoy men without learning a few things. One glance at her son’s rigid face told her everything she needed to know.

As Hermione reluctantly joined them at the table, Narcissa said brightly, "Isn't this lovely? Miss Granger, Draco was just filling me in on his latest work. Why don't you continue, dear, while I serve Miss Granger some tea?"

"Yes, well, you see..." Through his discomfort at the situation, he managed to recall enough to tie a few things he was working on to the treatment he'd designed for her, and began to talk about it. He and Hermione persevered through the conversation for some minutes, Narcissa smiling genially at them the whole time. Finally, running out of ways to fill the space and feeling uncomfortably as if he’d been babbling, he fell silent.

Whereupon Narcissa went to Phase II of her plan.

“Miss Granger, have I told you about the renovations I'm planning for Malfoy Manor? No? Well, I've been thinking...the house is of course several hundred years old and has seen at least it's fair share of tragedy over the years. I'm dismayed that some of the biggest tragedies occurred while I was mistress of the house. I want to change the scene of the tragedy, as it were, so that no one need be reminded of the - recent unfortunate occurrences. I’m looking forward to the changes and to showing them to you in particular. Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me your opinion on any decisions? In fact," she said, glancing down at her watch, "I think I'll just drop over and look at some upholstery fabrics. There's no time like the present, is there? Now, don't you two wait for me, there's no telling how long I'll be. Draco, be a love and just escort Miss Granger home when she's ready to leave, would you?”

With that, she stood, gathering her things and surreptitiously secreting something in the pocket of Draco’s cloak. She swept out of the tea shop in a wave of sophistication, leaving at least two people sitting stunned behind.

Draco was the first to react. “Played by a master,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I don’t think she’s been that chatty before in my life.”

Hermione was mortified. “Draco, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with arranging this."

His face went blank. “Of course you didn’t. We all know how Granger feels about the Malfoys.”

She took her courage into her hands and said, “Well, as to that…perhaps you don’t.” And she pulled that morning’s Daily Prophet out of her bag and laid it on the table.

He stared, stunned, then sat up straight, picked up the paper and began to read. He was astonished at what he saw. 

Splashed across the top of the paper in a second-coming-of-Christ size typeface was the headline: WHERE IS DRACO MALFOY? Much of the entire front page seemed filled with photos and articles about him, with a Rita Skeeter exclusive outlining the "important details" of how Draco had "swooped in from his self-imposed exile to work magic as only he can, saving Our Princess from Certain Death or Worse!!!" Offset in a box was an interview Ms. Skeeter obtained with Narcissa Malfoy, where Madam Malfoy happily pointed out how proud she is of Draco's "fascinating, pioneering work in the blending of Magic and Muggle technologies to save untold numbers of Muggles and magical folk alike. And I'm so proud and grateful to see Draco, as head of the Malfoy family, leading us into a new age of peace and cooperation, away from the darkness of the past. My only regret is that he seems to feel he must remain away from the wizarding world - some people's ill-informed opinions of him have made it difficult for him, so he's chosen to remain secluded in an undisclosed location."

“How - what - good Lord, I’m stammering. What is all this about? My mother - my MOTHER gave an interview to Rita Skeeter. I'm not sure whether to be amused or appalled. How did this happen?”

She replied simply, "You needed a way to be accepted again. I know how to work the media and public opinion - I’ve had to do it for years. Gryffindor’s princess, remember? The Golden Trio? I contacted your mother and outlined my plan to her, and she agreed to give an exclusive if it would help. Not to mention, Rita Skeeter owes me a favor or two…”

"So now, what, suddenly I’m a rock star?" He was astounded.

"Well, if the shoe fits…" she replied, a teasing smile on her face. She couldn't help but laugh a little at his Muggle analogy. 

Her smile faded, and suddenly she was fiddling with a teaspoon and looking down at the table. "And besides all that, I - I wanted to do something to show you how mistaken I was. How sorry I am, how much I regret…”

"Regret what?" he prompted her quietly.

“Letting you go,” she whispered, looking up at him with large, pained eyes.

He stared at her a moment, thoughts of the amicable greetings and smiles of that morning coming back to him and then -

“Not here.” Suddenly pulling a few coins out of his trouser pocket and tossing them on the table, Draco stood up and picked up her coat, holding it out to assist her on with it before donning his cloak. 

Nodding at the smiling proprietor, Draco walked briskly out of the shop with Hermione nearly running to keep up with his long stride. Soon he pulled her into a side alley and abruptly apparated them to her apartment.

His head was reeling from the life-changing occurrences that day, and now just in front of him was the woman he loves - the architect of all of those changes. Changes made - just for him? Redemption handed to him on a platter. He hardly knew what to do. 

Putting his hands in his cloak pockets to keep from grabbing her like a loon, he found something unfamiliar in one of them, and pulled it out. He recognized it as a ring box from the family vault, and started to laugh.

His marching orders were clear. 

"Draco, what is that?" Hermione asked suspiciously, knowing very well what it likely contained.

"It seems my mother has a talent for sleight of hand I wasn’t aware of. And she paid a visit to the vault recently, as well."

"I’m your mother’s choice, then, am I?" she asked, trying to stave off her disappointment. Draco wouldn't be manipulated by anyone any more, not even his mother. And she wouldn't want him that way anyway. 

Suddenly serious, he looked down into her eyes and threw caution to the wind. “No, she knows that you’re my choice and she's just helping us along.

Now - what was it you wanted to say to me?” he added, slipping the box back into his pocket, taking her by the arms and pulling her closer.

She looked up at him solemnly for a moment, and just as he was beginning to worry he'd overplayed his hand, she reached up, cupped his face in her hands, and pulled him down to kiss him. His reaction was immediate - one hand reached to cradle her head, buried in her hair, and the other arm wound around her back, pulling her up flush against his body. Her hands slipped through his feathery hair and then her arms wound around his neck as her mouth opened under his, and he turned her head slightly for better access as he kissed her deeply and passionately.

Easing back, smiling against her mouth, he inquired softly, “Should we see what’s in the box?”

“Later,” she breathed, pushing his cloak and jacket off his shoulders and unknotting his tie before starting on his shirt buttons. 

-finis-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed my little story! Please leave a comment if you have the time - feedback means a lot to me!
> 
> _-MPI_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Sarcio:** (Latin) verb  
>  to make good; redeem; restore


End file.
